


Gross Indecency

by bittergreens



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Blow Jobs, Carriage Sex!, Clothing Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Blow Jobs, Public Sex, Rimming, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Content, Sherlock has no discretion whatsoever, Sherlock loves to suck cock, Smut, Victorian, setlock inspired, victorianlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 20:36:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3824269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittergreens/pseuds/bittergreens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are on a stakeout. Sherlock gets bored waiting. John gets turned on. They’re in a carriage. You guess what happens next. </p><p>In which, John and Sherlock put the Victorian laws concerning public indecency through a very vigorous test.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gross Indecency

**Author's Note:**

> So last year I posted a story on my birthday, as a sort of birthday gift from me to all of you lovely readers out there, and since you all have been especially lovely lately, I thought I would do the same thing again. So Happy Birthday from me to you! Please enjoy this filthy Victorian carriage sex as a token of my gratitude for all your continued loveliness.
> 
> <3 <3
> 
> This was basically written in a haze of Victorian setlock, clothing-porn induced lust, and has not been beta-ed nor seen by any eyes but my own, so please forgive any errors you may find. I will go over it again more carefully tomorrow when I have more presence of mind. But for now, enjoy the carriage porn!

“Where is he?” Sherlock asked for the umpteenth time, leaning forward to peer through the window of the coach at the deserted London street.

John sighed in bored agreement, shifting in his seat, eyes following Sherlock’s agitated glance to the line of buildings hunched like shadowy figures on the street opposite.

Although it was the middle of the day, the fog hung heavy over the grey streets, shrouding everything in gloomy obscurity. It might as well be six o’clock in the evening for all that they could make out.

They were on a stakeout, and Sherlock was in one of his moods, displaying the kind of irritable jumpiness that even the most compelling of cases could not dispel. He’d sat, drumming his fingers on the top of his thigh, looking out the window, letting out a cross emission of air every few minutes to signal his impatience.

They’d paid off the cabby. Sherlock had thrust a handful of notes into his hand, instructing him that they were to stay in position until otherwise notified, and if he acquiesced through the remainder of the appointment he would be rewarded for his efforts, in triplicate. 

However, they had been waiting for close to half an hour now and their man showed no sign of emerging.

“These initiation meetings can run for some time, I’m told,” John said conversationally. 

Sherlock glared at him, drumming his fingers on his thigh. He didn’t respond.

“Yes, but he’s already been in there half the morning. He should be coming out _now_.”

“You don’t know that.” John tried to keep his tone reasonable but it still earned him another glowering look from Sherlock’s direction.

“Where could he _be_?” Sherlock leaned tensely forward to peer out the foggy window for the umpteenth time. “It doesn’t make sense.”

John shifted in his seat. 

Normally, stakeouts of this nature wouldn’t prove a problem for him; nor would Sherlock’s extreme irritation (well, to a fault). However, John was feeling restless for an entirely different reason. 

They were tailing a man involved with a tightly woven crime syndicate based in central London. The criminals had been targeting not only London’s wealthiest families but also some of its most powerful ones, so it was no wonder Mycroft had practically begged Sherlock to take the case. 

The case thus far had been long and intricate and Sherlock had been too caught up in its details to spare much attention for the more… carnal nature of his and John’s relationship.

John usually didn’t mind. It was just that… as a birthday present from Mycroft, Sherlock had been given a new suit of clothes care of Mycroft’s particular tailor in Savile Row. 

“Since you’re to be serving London’s elite population now, it’s best you look the part.”

John had expected Sherlock to sneer at Mycroft’s insistence on propriety and turn his nose up at his brother’s gift, but it turned out if there was one thing Sherlock had a weakness for it was fine clothing.

He was wearing the new suit today. 

The trousers were dove grey, beautifully tailored to accentuate Sherlock’s long legs and lean hips. The waistcoat was grey silk with the finest suggestion of pale lilac ribbing. The shirt he wore underneath was pure cotton—the material so light and fine it looked as though it would dissolve beneath John’s fingers if he tried to touch it. Over both of these, he wore a dove grey jacket; made from the same fine material as the trousers, silver buttons glinting at each cuff. 

John wasn’t one who paid much attention to fancy clothes, and it wasn’t that Sherlock’s clothing before had been shabby, but this tailor had a gift. 

The whole ensemble fit him like a glove.

Walking by Sherlock’s room before they’d left the house this morning, John had caught sight of Sherlock in his shirtsleeves, doing up the final buttons on his waistcoat in front of the mirror. 

John stopped and watched him, his long fingers on the gleaming buttons, tugging the waistcoat into place above his hips. 

The clothing fit him like a second skin. It drew attention to the lean grace that was always present in Sherlock’s body, but that usually only John was privy to when he saw Sherlock’s lovely frame without a stich of clothing to hide its magnificence. 

Somehow the cut of the material made available all the qualities of Sherlock’s long, elegant frame that were normally masked by fabric. 

The line of his narrow waist was accentuated by the snug fit of the waistcoat, the collar of the shirt elongated his already lovely throat, and the white sleeves made his elegant arms look somehow both more masculine and graceful at once. And in his arse in those dove grey trousers…

John could practically feel his mouth watering.

Sherlock caught his eyes in the mirror. 

The lilac piping on the waistcoat made his pale eyes an ethereal turquoise blue, seemed to darken the sheen in his slicked-back curls.

John looked away, his cheeks warm; but not before missing the quirk at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. 

Self-satisfied bastard. He was already arrogant enough—these new clothes could only bring trouble.

And sure enough, trouble they did bring, as John found he was completely unable to keep himself from staring at the lines of Sherlock’s suit underneath his coat as they idled in the carriage on that foggy street. 

He’d been fine the first fifteen minutes or so, but they had been waiting for so _long_ , and the air in the coach was close. 

John could smell the oil Sherlock used in his hair, the dried lavender that Mrs. Hudson always kept pressed between Sherlock’s clothes, and the ever-present scent of his pipe smoke—all smells that made him think of the more intimate encounters he’d shared with Sherlock—his face pressed into those disheveled curls, Sherlock in his lap, strong thighs gripping John’s waist as he rode his cock, the sweat gleaming on his exposed throat, his voice low, moaning with increasing desperation.

John shifted in his seat again. 

This time, Sherlock’s eyes flicked up at him, noting the disturbance. 

Thank goodness for the heavy wool of John’s own overcoat. It did an excellent job hiding John’s growing discomfort, which he was sure would otherwise prove quite visible.

John clenched his teeth, made a point of telling himself not to move again, no matter how constricted and uncomfortable he felt. 

Sherlock’s gaze left him, flickered back to the window and the blank and foggy street, his gloved hands tensing on his thighs. 

But after several silent minutes, the stretch of Sherlock’s neck, the hard flare of his nostrils, the closeness, the masculine scent of him in the warm dark proximity of the carriage, John couldn’t help himself. He coiled his own fist on his thigh in an effort to keep himself from moving and shifted again.

Sherlock’s eyes darted back to him, his body utterly still, except the knowing focus of his gaze, moving over every inch of John. His eyes narrowed, the gleam of his look brightening in the dim light of the carriage. 

“ _Oh_ ,” he breathed, his eyes glowing like embers through the darkness. “Oh, how _fascinating_.”

“Sherlock… no—”

John only had time for one word of warning, but it was already too late. He could tell from the pique of Sherlock’s eyebrow, the low rush of his breath as he leaned forward and tugged his gloves off with his teeth, dropping his hat on the seat beside him without ceremony.

“Sherlock, I’m not—we’re not—we can’t here!!” John threw a scandalized glance out the carriage window, scrutinizing the street for any passersby. 

Sure enough, in the dull glow of the street lamp John could make out the silhouette of two men on the other side of the street approaching at a reasonable pace. They would be passing their carriage within minutes. 

“Why not?” Sherlock said in a low rasp as he pushed his overcoat off his shoulders and slid off the cushioned seat, his knees hitting the bottom of the carriage with a muffled thud. 

It was only the matter of one shuffled slide forward before Sherlock had inserted himself between John’s spread knees.

Oh god. John knew that cadence to Sherlock’s voice—it meant sex was going to happen, and there was nothing he could do about it. 

Largely because when Sherlock spoke in that low rough tone, it did things to John that made him lose all sense of common decency and decorum. When Sherlock spoke like that, John was helpless to resist. He could feel himself growing fully hard against the front of his trousers, his cock straining at the fabric.

“Because—” John hissed in desperation, knowing it was futile, but compelled at least to give the pretense that he was resisting this, what was surely an act of public indecency if they were to be caught, which they _surely_ would if Sherlock intended to do what was written in the dark glitter of his hungry gaze. “Because someone will _see_!”

“So what?” Sherlock asked blandly, or it would have been blandly, if there wasn’t that rough edge in his voice broadcasting something dark and hungry, like the lean shadow of some starving beast confined for years to the bottom of a cage only now set free, that seemed to reach inside John’s chest and drag his heart up into his lungs, constricting the passage of air.

“Because we’ll be thrown in prison,” John protested feebly as Sherlock flicked the weight of John’s heavy wool coat from off his lap, fingers snaking in to find the front of John’s trousers and begin pulling the buttons apart.

“No, we won’t,” Sherlock said, with that same bland practicality in his voice that somehow managed to stoke the fire already burning in John’s loins into an inferno. “Lestrade wouldn’t dare. He owes me too many favors.”

“I’m not sure he would concur with that,” John hissed in the direction of Sherlock’s head, which was ducking down over John’s lap as he pulled John’s trousers down his thighs, the dull gleam of Sherlock’s hair shining in the lamplight.

Even though it was not yet noon, the heaviness of the fog over the streets was so profound the street lamps were lit, burning like orange beacons through the gloom.

The shock of the cool air on his bared skin made John’s breath catch but the sensation only emphasized the stark contrast between that and the pliant heat of Sherlock’s fingers as they brushed against his nude thighs, only intensified the forbidden nature of what they were about to do. John felt his erection twitch to life under the lapels of his coat that Sherlock hadn’t bothered to remove.

Sherlock, quickly realizing that this was a deterrent to his access, reached up with impatient fingers to undo the line of buttons on John’s overcoat. 

It never ceased to amaze John how quickly Sherlock could unfasten buttons— _Musician’s fingers_ , John told himself, to quiet the other part of his mind which whispered, _All that time spent in Grecian salons in his well-bred youth, years at Cambridge with his head in some boy’s lap reading Plato’s Symposium, exchanging heat and breath in a darkened dormitory on some creaking bed_. John knew very well what went on at public school, although he’d never dared to ask.

 _Stop being jealous of someone who you don’t even know exists_ , John told himself sternly, dragging his mind back to the present where Sherlock was leering up at him with an incorrigibly self-satisfied expression on his face, having discovered the full force of just how willing John was to participate.

“My, my Doctor Watson, what have we here?”

John could hear the savage triumph in Sherlock’s voice, even if he hadn’t been able to see it on his face, but John could see that very clearly too as Sherlock grinned up at him with wolfish pleasure, his teeth gleaming in the muted light from the lanterns through the fog. 

John let his head fall back against the carriage wall with a hollow thud of surrender. “Lord have mercy on our souls.”

“My dear Doctor Watson,” Sherlock crooned with mock disapproval in his voice. “How could you let this happen? In a public place, no less? How very… _indiscreet_. Whatever are we going to do about this?”

John wasn’t sure why this particular mock-chiding tone was having the effect on him that it was, but it was having an effect sure enough—a blush began to creep up his throat from under his starched collar to heat his cheeks. Something in that feigned voice of disappointment brought back the memories of grim-faced school masters who had boxed his ears and sent him to front of the classroom to stand in disgrace, nurses who had clucked their tongues over John for some childish indiscretion. The shame it caused to pound through John’s veins was visceral, made his fists clench on his thighs, at the same time that it made him squirm against the cushioned seat with vulgar longing.

“I think there’s only one solution,” Sherlock purred, reaching with long cool fingers to take the length of John in hand.

At the touch of Sherlock’s bare hand against him, fingers surprisingly warm despite the chill, John felt his desire rise up within him like a lick of flame. Heat pooled in his lower stomach, making his cock thicken and twitch in satisfied approval in Sherlock’s hand.

“Oh yes,” Sherlock sighed. “There’s only one way forward from here.”

The thumb of his right hand was already swirling over the head of John’s erection, deftly pushing his foreskin back, making John hiss and clench his fingers on his thighs as the pad of Sherlock’s finger made contact with the sensitive skin at the tip of John’s prick.

Sherlock leaned in, his other hand warm against John’s knee. He tipped his head up, gazing at John through lashes that were low and heavy over his eyes. He blinked slowly and even the action of him shutting and opening his eyes again was somehow sultry, laden with the implications of sex. 

How Sherlock could go from the whip-like intensity and focus of the case, to this sinful creature pouring himself into John’s lap with all the discretion of a two-bit whore, all in a matter of minutes was a mystery to John—one that he didn’t have the brain-power to consider at the moment as Sherlock’s fingers were now stroking fully down the length of him, all the way to the root.

“Oh my god,” John breathed in mingled awe and horror as Sherlock’s skillful fingers reached down to cup his bollocks, rolling them gently in his palm. The gesture made him unconsciously nudge his thighs further apart but his movement was restricted by the bunched fabric of his trousers just above his knees.

“Mmm, it’s a shame I don’t have access to more of you,” Sherlock said, his voice a low sigh of reluctance, as if he could read John’s thoughts, the hand not occupied with John’s cock reaching up to pluck longingly at the buttons on John’s waistcoat.

“Don’t you dare!” John hissed, pouring all the reprimand that he could muster into the whispered tone of his voice, half-terrified that Sherlock would do it. 

If he set his mind to it, there was no stopping Sherlock from tearing off every last item of John’s clothing, pushing John back against the cushions of the coach stark-naked, and climbing on to straddle his hips.

John let out a guttural moan at the image that sent into his head.

Oh god, it seemed there was some part of him that _wanted_ that to happen. 

“What is it?” Sherlock probed. “The idea’s appealing, is it not?”

Those greedy fingers settled on the buttons and John was just about to acquiesce to the most terrible idea he’d ever had when the sharp sound of approaching footsteps echoed off the cobblestones outside.

“Someone’s coming!” John whispered, apprehension driving his heart up into his throat, sweeping all thoughts of further indiscretion cleanly from his mind.

“Wave hello then,” Sherlock drawled, unconcerned, and then dropped his head to take John’s cock into his mouth.

John’s mouth fell open in a silent gasp of pleasure, one gloved hand reaching out in desperation to seize the upholstery of the cushion beside him, his whole body tensing as the velvet heat of Sherlock’s mouth enveloped him and began to suck.

The passing gentlemen chose just that moment to walk by the window, the low murmur of their voices briefly rising in volume as they traversed the pavement not _two feet_ from where John sat with his trousers halfway down his thighs, Sherlock Holmes industriously working his tongue over the slit of John’s cock.

 _Oh my god, this is it, we’re going to be caught_ , John thought, half-mortified, half more aroused than ever as he ducked his head sharply away from the window, hoping that his hat shrouded most of the blush on his face.

Luck was with him. 

The gentlemen passed without stopping, possibly without even glancing into the carriage to see a man with a bowler hat pulled low over his eyes, one hand flung out wildly beside him on the carriage seat for no apparent reason.

Sherlock dropped his mouth another few inches, his broad palms stroking the exposed tops of John’s tensed thighs, moaning low and sweet in the base of his throat, as though the slick heat of John filling his mouth was all he needed on this earth to survive.

The reverberations this caused sent a jolt of feeling from the tip of John’s cock down to his balls and the angry reprimand he was about to issue Sherlock promptly died on his lips completely forgotten, washed away in a pulsing tide of lust.

 _God_ , John thought deliriously, blasphemously, his mind tilting into nonsensical fancy as Sherlock worked the vein on the underside of John’s very prominent erection, making shivers erupt down his spine, setting his toes to tingling in the constriction of his boots. 

If Sherlock Holmes hadn’t been put on this earth to anticipate the criminal mind, then surely he was created for the sole purpose of sucking cock. 

John had never met a man in all his years who was both so enthusiastic and skilled at pleasuring this particular organ.

The things he could do with his tongue—John’s hips arched into Sherlock’s mouth with a wordless cry as Sherlock simultaneously sucked and stroked, lips providing friction as his head bobbed obscenely over John’s lap.

John pushed a fist up against his mouth to stifle the cry.

John was not typically inclined to making lots of noise—that was usually Sherlock’s starring role—but this time, something about the desperation of the situation, the knowledge that at any moment they could be apprehended made his lust increase by tenfold, making his cock throb in Sherlock’s mouth. 

The coach driver could decide at any moment to come back and ask them how much longer they planned to wait, a passing constable could rap on the window, and ask them why’d they’d stopped for so long, any number of strangers walking by could peer in through the window and see exactly why John’s face was flushed and strained, Sherlock’s dark head moving eagerly between his thighs. 

The realization made John whimper sharply and bite down hard on the leather of his glove.

Sherlock’s hands—even warmer now from all the activity, were creeping up the insides of John’s thighs, one long finger reaching down into the heat between John’s legs. Once again, John’s knees jerked instinctively apart to give Sherlock more room but were restricted by the fabric at his knees.

Sherlock pulled off with a lewd slurp, his eyes flicking up to lock with John’s.

“I told you these clothes would only get in the way.” His voice was rough, as deep as sin.

“Sher—Sherlock, don’t—”

But Sherlock’s clever hands were already tugging the material of John’s trousers down around his ankles, giving him the space he needed to finally spread his legs, which John took with relief. As long as no more clothing was removed, this was an acceptable development.

Sherlock dropped his head back between John’s legs, this time pressing a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of John’s thigh, before working his way toward the base of John’s cock and then pausing to lick first one, then the other of John’s bollocks into his mouth.

John let out a strangled cry, his head falling back against the upholstery of the carriage, his gloved hands grasping in desperation at Sherlock’s shoulders.

He’d never been a religious man but Sherlock’s mouth always seemed to inspire the most devout expressions from him.

“ _Jesus, Sherlock_.”

Sherlock licked at the sensitive flesh, lapping in long, slow strokes, his hands on John’s knees, pushing them further apart to give his mouth better access.

There was something particularly scandalous and thrilling about the feel of the worn velvet of the carriage cushions beneath the bare skin of John’s arse, and just as John reflected that he was _certainly_ going to hell for that thought, he felt Sherlock tug hard on his knees, dragging his arse closer to Sherlock’s mouth and tilting his hips up.

“Sherlock, what are you—?”

He swallowed his own words with a bitten-off cry as Sherlock’s tongue pushed at the entrance to his body, his hands spreading John’s arse cheeks apart to give him the room he needed to lick at the sensitive opening.

John put his gloved hands up over his eyes, his exhaled breath one long litany of lust and scandalized desire. “Oh my god...”

If Sherlock was meant to interpret John’s cries as a plea to stop, he ignored them, and carried right on licking in broad, messy strokes, pausing alternately to probe the ring of muscle with the tip of his tongue until he felt it give way.

Terrorized by embarrassment and fear though he may have been, John found he was also harder than he’d ever been in his life. He could feel the tip of his now-neglected cock leaking pitifully at the slit.

Letting Sherlock Holmes lick his arsehole in the back of a public carriage was by far the most indecent thing he’d ever done.

It was also the most arousing.

His only regret was that he hadn’t had the presence of mind to remove his gloves—he longed to feel the bunch of Sherlock’s silken curls under his hands as Sherlock sucked. He also knew Sherlock lost it when he had his hair pulled, and John was starting to wish he wasn’t the only one in this carriage being completely taken apart. 

Dragging his gloves off with shaking fingers, John reached out to slide his hands into Sherlock’s hair but Sherlock shook him away, rearing out of John’s reach. 

“No,” he gasped, his lips swollen, his mouth slick and shining in the gleam of the nearby lamp. 

Just the sight of Sherlock’s debauched mouth in such sharp contrast with the rest of him, the stiff line of the collar at his throat, the expensive material of his jacket, still so prim and buttoned up, made John’s stomach lurch with desire.

Sherlock shook his head briefly as though in apology, long fingers stroking once down John’s thighs. “Not this time.”

“What—?” 

John tried to formulate a question but Sherlock didn’t give him the chance to finish. His head was back between John’s thighs, taking the head of John’s cock between his lips and swallowing it down almost to the hilt.

John gasped in shocked pleasure, hips startling up into Sherlock’s mouth. Miraculously, Sherlock didn’t choke. Instead, his mouth sank deeper to take more of John.

Everything was heat, heat, heat, and slick tight moisture as John felt himself penetrate almost to the back of Sherlock’s throat.

“Oh god,” he rasped, hands scrambling for purchase in the fine wool of Sherlock’s jacket. “ _Oh my god_.”

Sherlock had a knack for sucking cock, but this level of skilled devotion was impressive, even for him. John felt like Sherlock was drawing all of his life force down into the column of flesh between his legs, just by the subtle movements of his lips and tongue. He had to make an effort to keep from thrusting up into the heat of Sherlock’s mouth. It took every ounce of his ragged concentration to hold his hips still.

As if being buried in Sherlock’s throat wasn’t enough, John could feel, in every inch of his overly sensitized flesh, Sherlock humming with little, low moaning sounds of pleasure, deep in the base of his throat.

Not only did the sound create another layer of sensation for his wonderfully stimulated cock, but it reminded John how much Sherlock was getting pleasure out of this activity too—maybe almost as much as he was, and he longed to reach down and feel to see if Sherlock was as hard as he imagined, in the expensive material of his dove grey trousers.

Sherlock pulled off slightly, breath coming hard from his nose, cheeks hollowing as his mouth rode back up, and John gritted his teeth, fingers clenching in the material at Sherlock’s back. He wasn’t going to last much longer. His breathing was ragged, thighs tensed under Sherlock’s hands.

Then slowly, agonizingly slowly, Sherlock’s mouth sank back down, the fingers of one hand reaching down to cup John’s balls as he did, then moving underneath to push at the entrance to John’s body, loosened from the activity of Sherlock’s eager tongue, and John groaned, feeling how easily Sherlock’s finger breached him.

The combined sensation of Sherlock’s long finger penetrating him with the tight circle of Sherlock’s mouth around his cock was almost too much for him. John couldn’t keep his hips still any longer—they thrust up, encouraging Sherlock’s finger to push deeper, for his mouth to sink lower around John’s cock.

Sherlock obliged, moaning long and low in the base of his throat in response, his mouth suckling at John’s prick like a man drowning of thirst, finger pushing further in and curving as it did until it brushed John’s prostate, and that was it. That was the beginning of the end.

John pressed forward with his hips, bucking wildly into Sherlock’s mouth—needing more pressure, more stimulation and Sherlock, not one to be easily outdone, began to pump John’s cock in and out of his mouth, sucking hard, cheeks hollowed to create a slick wet tunnel of heat, finger stroking all the while at the bundle of nerves inside John.

John arched up into Sherlock’s mouth, hips pumping with abandon, fingers clawing at Sherlock’s back. From his own mouth poured a steady stream of blessings and obscenities mixed with broken articulations of Sherlock’s name. “Holy Christ—Sher—Sherlock—Jesus, yes— _yes_ —God, don’t, don’t stop—oh… _god_.”

All thoughts of discretion, based on the fact that he and Sherlock were in a carriage on a public street in the middle of the day, fled from John’s mind. Or if he was aware of the fact it only served to heighten his lust.

It was difficult to say what it was that finally pushed him over the edge. It well could have been John’s sudden renewed awareness of this fact—that Sherlock was on his knees in the back of a public coach with John’s cock down his throat—either that, or the sounds of Sherlock’s needy moans around him as he sucked, saliva running from the corners of his lips as John pumped into him. 

At this image—of Sherlock’s flushed and spit-slicked lips around his own shining length, John’s hips gave one final jerk and then he was rising up off the carriage seat, his body dissolving into a shimmer of heat, vision whiting out as pleasure burst through him sharp and sweet and transcendent. 

Sherlock’s mouth stayed warm around him through every pulse of John’s release, and he could feel the muscles of Sherlock’s throat working as he swallowed it down. The visceral nature of this fact drew another long wave of pleasure shuddering through John’s torso, and with it another burst of fluid. Sherlock sucked that down too, fingers insistent on John’s thighs.

It felt like a long while before John sank back against the cushions, gasping shallowly, his bowler hat—which had miraculously remained on his head throughout the entire proceedings—tipping low over his eyes.

It occurred to him that he ought to pull his trousers back on and get himself in order, but the blissful languor induced by the force of his orgasm left him little energy to care that his trousers remained around his ankles, cock hanging obscenely in his naked lap.

He looked down to see Sherlock, sitting back on his heels, the picture of serene propriety, save for his swollen, shining mouth, and the fact that John could see his chest rising and falling rather too quickly beneath the front of his waistcoat.

“You’re lucky I’m so neat,” Sherlock said, wiping his lips primly as pushed himself up off his knees. 

John reached down to drag his trousers back on. “Indeed, I am. It’s one of your least-lauded faculties. I should compliment you on it more often.”

Sherlock sniffed in an unconcerned way as he settled himself back in the seat opposite but John didn’t miss the flash of self-satisfaction in Sherlock’s eyes.

“Well,” John said, after he’d made sure everything was back on and buttoned accordingly, sparing a glance for the still-deserted street outside. “I guess we’re lucky the suspect didn’t decide to come out in the middle of all that.

“Well, he wouldn’t have.” Sherlock leaned over to reach for his discarded gloves and hat. 

“Why not?”

“There was no stake out,” Sherlock said, tugging his gloves back on over his knuckles with fastidious care. 

“ _What_?” John snapped, incredulous.

“Well, there was,” Sherlock replied, unconcerned, looking down at the pristine front of his jacket and flicking away an imaginary speck of dust before tugging it into place. “He was here hours ago.” Sherlock waved an impatient hand. “I never would have sat waiting for him to get out of a meeting when I could just go in and talk to him whenever I pleased. No, we have a meeting with him tomorrow. _This_ was just because you’ve been so wound up on this case. I knew it would do you good to experience a small brush with danger, imagined though it may have been. However, I suppose if I’m being honest, it’s mostly because I’ve always wanted to suck you off in a carriage in broad daylight.”

“ _I’ve_ been wound up?” John couldn’t seem to break his newfound habit of stupidly repeating everything Sherlock said. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him in thinly veiled amusement before looking away. 

“I knew you’d never go for it unless we were in very particular circumstances.”

John clenched his jaw in irritation. “What kind of circumstances?”

“Well,” Sherlock fluttered a disinterested hand. “I knew you had to feel … especially pressed. Besides, I saw how you looked at me this morning after I got dressed.”

“You wore…” John stared at Sherlock in undisguised shock. “You wore the new suit on purpose?”

“…because I knew it made you insensate with lust? Yes, very good, John. As always, a bit slow to catch on, but you do always get there in the end. I’m just going to have a word with the driver, tell him to take us directly to the club.”

John groaned. “We’re having lunch with your _brother_?”

“Yes, John, I think he should have some very interesting things to tell us about the Imperial Diamond. And I knew you’d never sit through a lunch at the Diogenes unless you’d been thoroughly fucked.”

Sherlock hopped nimbly out of the carriage with altogether too much grace for a man who’d just been on his knees moaning around another man’s cock.

John dropped back against the cushions with a sigh, trying to dredge up the appropriate annoyance at Sherlock’s behavior. However, he couldn’t seem to find it within himself to be very angry at all. He felt too content.

The realization that Sherlock was almost completely right in his assessment did make John feel a flicker of real irritation.

John tugged his bowler back down over his eyes with a scowl.

It _may_ have been some of the best sex of John’s life, and he _may_ have gotten off on the thrill of public sex, but that didn’t mean Sherlock was wholly forgiven for the matter, oh no, far from it. John was going to have to his revenge, the question of what form it would take, well, John thought, smiling at Sherlock as he climbed back in the carriage and then rapped on the roof to signal the driver, he had a whole boring lunch to think through the details.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I love hearing from you- comments are very much appreciated!! :)
> 
> For lots of pictures of men in cravats and waistcoats, as well as ocean-related things, come follow me on tumblr!
> 
>  
> 
> Oh, also, I should note, there is 1000% going to be a sequel to this. I already have it all planned out. John's revenge is going to be sweet. So stay tuned for that. :D


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